


Crumble

by comefeedtherainn



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Domestic Violence, M/M, Suggestive Themes, Suicidal Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comefeedtherainn/pseuds/comefeedtherainn
Summary: Franklin Delano Donut is not afraid of Frank Dufresne. But should he be?Sequel to "#BFFLS #SELFIE #NoFilter, but can stand alone. I wrote this for the angst war a million years ago (aka last month) and never cross-posted!





	Crumble

     The room is pitch black and silent, save for the unsteady drip of water from the leaky faucet, and Donut contemplates the malleability of the human mind.

     He’s thought about it a few times before, how people can change for better or worse, sometimes slowly and sometimes in an instant. He’s seen it happen slowly in his teammates and himself. They’ve all grown more serious, more lethal, and – in silent agreement - put up a thick wall between themselves and everyone outside of their family. Donut has noticed some positive change in himself – he’s become more accurate with his weapons and learned not to be so naïve. He also has frequent nightmares, sleepwalks, and still can’t be near even the smallest explosion without startling right out of his skin. He supposes getting the right side of his face basically blown off didn’t help, but that didn’t mean he had to like the mental consequences.

     Mental consequences. Something he never really considered were a danger until he’d joined the army. While he likes to say he is very in touch with his emotions, Donut can admit that he requires physical evidence before he will take most things seriously. He gets impatient with himself for panicking when a grenade goes off near him, but the scar on his face reminds him that he has every right to be afraid.

     Perhaps that is why Doc has been confusing him so. After Tucker and Caboose found Doc and brought him to base, Donut had been sure things would finally start looking up. Doc had no physical injuries, so he was fine. Everything was fine.

     Except, it wasn’t.

* * *

     Donut rubs his face wearily as he pours himself a cup of black instant coffee. He takes a sip, pulling a face at the unpleasant bitterness, but knows better than to deny caffeine when it’s presented to him. He takes the cup and his breakfast (toast, the only thing he can shove down his own throat despite having no appetite at the moment) and carries it to the Reds and Blues’ table in Armonia’s mess hall.

     “Wow, Donut, you’re a mess,” Simmons says bluntly, staring at him.

     “Thanks, my eye bags are Gucci,” Donut mumbles, sipping his coffee and staring at the opposite wall as he tries not to pass out on his plate.

     “Are you having trouble sleeping? You know Grey has sleep aids you can take. Or you could use Sarge’s, although I don’t exactly trust those to not be lethal to mortals.”

     “I’m fine,” Donut replies shortly, really not in the mood for the rambling. “Just had a late night.” He perks up slightly as he sees Doc enter the mess hall, though his smile falters as he takes in the sickly grey tone of the medic’s normally golden skin. “Hi,” he greets as Doc passes their table. “They have coffee today.”

     “Oh. Great,” Doc says, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Thanks.” He wanders off in the direction of the food and coffee, and Donut watches him go, chewing the inside of his lip.

     “Wow. Could’ve cut that tension with a fucking knife,” Grif scoffs. “The fuck’s up with you two? I thought you’d made up.”

     “We did,” Donut assures him, though he feels like he is lying as the words come out of his mouth. “…sort of.”

     “We heard you guys shouting in your room,” Simmons pipes up. “We figured he’d, you know…stayed the night. Like.  _Stayed the night_.”

     “Simmons, you fucking virgin.”

     “We did make up,” Donut interrupts. “He didn’t stay the night though.” He looks around as he is met with complete silence. “What? He said he was tired, and I certainly don’t blame him.”

     “I guess,” Grif says slowly, raising a thick eyebrow. “But I mean…if he was tired, why didn’t he just sleep with you then? Like, actually sleep.”

     Donut frowns at him. “I’m not expecting everything to go back to normal right away, Grif. That’s not fair. He’s been through a very traumatic experience. He thought I’d forgotten him. I can’t expect anything from him, right now.”

     He doesn’t realize how much more quickly he’s started to speak until he is breathless by the end of his sentence, and Simmons and Grif are staring again.

     “Okay. Whatever you say, man,” Grif shrugs, putting up his hands. “I’m just saying it’s weird.”

     Donut turns to scowl at the wall again, gulping his disgusting coffee and trying to shoo Grif’s words out of brain. They stick firmly though, echoing over and over until he is the only one left in the mess hall, staring into space.  _It’s weird, it’s weird, it’s weird._

* * *

     Donut takes a deep breath outside of Doc’s quarters, pumping himself up. He’s had a couple glasses of wine before leaving his own room, gathering all of his courage for what he is going to attempt. He squares his shoulders and knocks on Doc’s door three times, holding his breath as he waits for it to open.

     It cracks slightly, half of Doc’s face appearing in the gap. “Oh. Hey, Donut.”

     “Hey,” Donut greets, trying to push aside the awkwardness as Doc keeps the door mostly closed to him. “Um, can I come in?” he asks, doing his best to flutter his eyelashes enticingly.

     Doc hesitates for a few beats too long, and Donut’s stomach starts to sink. “Okay,” he says eventually, and Donut represses the urge to sigh in relief. The door opens wide enough for   
Donut’s body to slip through, and so he does.

     Doc’s quarters are still largely barren, both due to the fact that he just got there and that he has no possessions. It’s quiet for a few moments as Donut occupies himself with looking around, trying to pretend that the silence isn’t strange and that Doc isn’t staying as far away from him as possible. “How are you?” Donut asks eventually, turning and smiling softly at him.

     “Okay,” Doc replies automatically, which Donut knows is a damn lie but doesn’t call him out. “Did you need something?”

     “I just wanted to see you,” Donut tells him, going to sit on the bed. “Come sit with me. I haven’t really talked to you in days.”

     Doc hesitates again and Donut waits patiently – or as patiently as he is capable of at the moment. Finally the medic crosses the room, his movements a bit stiff and awkward, and slowly sinks to sit on the opposite end of the bed. No matter – Donut just scoots the few feet between them until their thighs are pressed together.

     Doc tenses but doesn’t move away. “How are  _you_?” he asks, looking at Donut but not quite meeting his eyes.

     “I’m fine,” Donut replies. He could tell him about how his limbs feel like lead and the muscles in his right eye have been twitching for three days now, but he figures that that can wait until later. Until after. He reaches and rests a hand on Doc’s thigh, smiling slightly at the soft intake of breath. “I’ve missed you, Frankie.”

     Doc turns his gaze toward him, their eyes finally locking and sending a static shock down Donut’s spine. “I missed you, too,” Doc admits softly, and that’s all it takes for Donut to slide one hand into his hair and firmly press a kiss to his mouth. Doc is stock still, but he doesn’t push him away, so Donut pushes forward, closer until he’s straddling Doc’s hips and winding his arms around his neck. He thrills as Doc finally responds, his soft hands coming to rest on Donut’s hips and squeezing as he parts his lips to return the kiss.

     It’s been such a long time, and Donut’s loneliness and touch starvation catch up to him in a flash fire that engulfs his entire body. Suddenly he is warm, very warm, and tugs his shirt over his head to alleviate some of the suffocation. He resumes kissing Doc as soon as it’s on the floor, exploring his mouth and nipping gently at his lips. He’s hard and panting as he reaches to fumble with the clasp on Doc’s pants, fingers shaking with anticipation.

     He frowns as suddenly Doc’s lips are gone, and he leans forward blindly in search of them, brought to a halt by two hands on his chest.

     “Donut. Donut, stop.”

     “What?” Donut asks, breathless and mind still fuzzy with arousal. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

     “No,” Doc mumbles, looking at where his hands are still pressing against Donut’s chest. “Just…”

     “Oh. You don’t want to,” Donut pants in surprise, swallowing around his dry throat as Doc slowly shakes his head. “…okay,” Donut says, a bit reluctantly. He won’t lie and say he isn’t disappointed (understatement of the century), but Doc is suffering and if he isn’t ready, he isn’t ready. “I’m sorry. I’ll just…” He clambers awkwardly out of Doc’s lap, still half hard and trying to maneuver without accidentally crushing himself. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath, looking over to share a sheepish smile with Doc before realizing he isn’t looking at him, but scowling at the floor. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching to touch Doc’s shoulder. “Don’t, it’s okay. It-“

     “I’m gonna…gonna go take a walk.”

     “Okay, I’ll come with you.”

     “No.”

     Donut blinks, pausing halfway to standing. He sits back down slowly, watching as Doc gets to his feet and slips on his shoes, not glancing at him once as he hurries out of the room and slams the door behind him.

* * *

     Okay, so he wasn’t ready. That’s all. He has every right to that, Donut thinks. It’s not weird. He doesn’t need to worry.

     On second thought –

     “Oh, my god!” Donut gasps as he approaches the docking bay and sees that yes, the ammo recovery squad Doc had been sent out with has returned, and Doc has apparently been injured. He is being heavily supported by Wash, his free hand clutching a wound just below his ribs on his left side. “What happened?”

     “We had a bit of company,” Wash says tensely, giving Donut a look as he tries to inspect Doc’s wound while they are still stumbling along. “He’s fine, it just grazed him, but it bled a lot.”

     “How?” Donut asks, still bewildered. Doc never gets shot, because Doc is always as far from the action as physically possible without going AWOL.

     Wash seems to realize what he is asking and scoffs quietly. “Good question. Has he actually had combat training?”

     “Minimal, but yeah,” Donut says, frowning at him. “He usually stays out of the fray, though.”

     “Yeah, well, he seemed pretty intent on being in the fray during this mission,” Wash says dryly. “So much so that he completely ignored me when I said to take cover, several times. He’s the last person I’d expect that kind of thing from. He’s lucky he didn’t get killed.”

     Donut stiffens a bit at those words and the way Wash says them. “Give him to me,” he says firmly. “I’ll take him to Grey.”

     Wash stares at him for a moment, before silently easing Doc’s weight onto Donut’s shoulder. Despite the fact that they’ve been talking about him like he isn’t there, Doc is awake, sluggish and blinking slowly but able to keep himself upright. “Come on,” Donut says softly to him. “We’re gonna get you fixed up, honey.”

     He guides Doc toward the door, nearly getting bowled over by Tucker hurrying past them. He glances over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of him grabbing Wash bodily and checking him for injuries, babbling frantic words that Donut can’t hear. He clenches his jaw and turns away again. Doc doesn’t say a word or make a move to acknowledge him the entire trek to the infirmary.

     “So,” Donut says some time later, after Doc has been cleaned up and bandaged and hydrated enough to be coherent. “Want to tell me what that was about?”

     “What what was about?” Doc deadpans, staring at the opposite wall with dull eyes.

     “You on that mission,” Donut huffs, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at him. “Wash told me all about your little stunt. What’s gotten into you?”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Doc mutters, closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh through his nose.

     “Oh, yes you do!” Donut snips. “You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed, Frank Dufresne. What exactly were you trying to accomplish?”

     “Who says that wasn’t the point?” Doc snaps, scowling angrily at him in the ensuing silence.

     Donut stares blankly back, trying to keep expression off of his face even though the question horrifies him. “What, you wanted to die?”

     “I’m tired.” Doc rolls onto his side, his back facing Donut.

     Donut fights the urge to scream and tear out his own hair, taking a deep breath instead. “This conversation isn’t over. I’ll see you tomorrow. …I love you.”

     He refuses to let it get to him when Doc doesn’t say it back, and spins on his heel, marching out of the infirmary.

* * *

     In the process of not letting it get to him, Donut acquires an extra large bottle of cabernet and climbs into bed with it, listening to melancholy love songs as he does his best to down at least half of it in one sitting.

     He’d meant what he said in the infirmary; he does love Frank, with all of his heart. Even after all this time, even with all of the cruelty and outright violence since Tucker and Caboose had discovered him in the cave. Donut still loves him, and will continue to aggressively do so until he helps Doc to heal. Still, he thinks as he sniffles quietly and wipes away his streams of tears while taking a large gulp of wine, he can hurt in his moments alone. He has to let it hurt sometime.

     The door slams open, and he has a brief flashback to two weeks ago; himself, drinking a glass of wine and Doc standing in his doorway, panting with repressed anger. “Frank,” he says softly, setting aside his glass. He gets to his feet, and only has time to blink before Doc has slammed the door shut again and crossed the floor in three long strides, shoving Donut up against the wall. “Ow, Frank, what the hell?” he grunts, trying to shove him off.

     “You always fight, Donut. And yet nothing ever comes of your struggles.”

     Donut pauses; that is not Doc. “Come back, Frank,” he says, like he always does. Frank always comes back if he asks. “If you’re angry, that’s okay, but let’s talk.”

     Doc’s hand tightens on Donut’s shoulder, making him wince. “You think that we can just talk and I will forget what you did,” O’Malley’s voice snarls, Doc’s face screwing up in ugly rage. “You think that everything will go back to normal after how you abandoned me!”

     “I don’t think that,” Donut argues, trying to remain calm while he can feel bruises blossoming on his shoulder. “Frank, that hurts.”

     He just barely represses the jump of surprise as Doc’s fist slams into the wall beside his head; he just knows Doc’s knuckles are going to be cut from that. “I’ll show you pain, you-!”

     “I’m not afraid of you,” Donut snaps, glaring up into his eyes. “You don’t scare me.”

     “No?” O’Malley’s voice sneers, and Donut holds his breath as Doc takes out his pistol and presses it to Donut’s forehead. Another flashback. “And what about now?”

     “No,” Donut says evenly, staring straight into Frank’s eyes and hardly daring to blink. The barrel is cold against his skin, and Doc is pressing it so firmly against him that he can feel indents forming. Probably another bruise.

     Doc pauses, then gives a sickly grin with glinting eyes as he holds the pistol to his own temple. Donut’s stomach turns to ice. “What is it?” O’Malley’s voice taunts; Donut can barely hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. “Are you afraid now, Donut?”

     “Yes,” Donut says shakily. “Yes, I’m afraid now. Is that what you wanted?”

     “I want you to know how it felt,” Doc snarls, halfway sounding like himself now. “I want you to know how fucking terrifying it was.”

     “You’ve made your point,” Donut snaps at him, angry beyond comprehension now and shaking with it. “You frightened me, are you happy? You can leave now.”

     “Why should I? You seemed desperate enough to get me into your bed the other night.”

     Donut doesn’t even think before striking him across the face. Doc drops the pistol in surprise, his eyes clearing. He's always dropping that _goddamn_ pistol. Donut stares at him, panting with rage and his palm stinging fiercely. “Get out,” he snaps, eyes welling up and vision going blurry. “Get the hell out, Frank.”

     “Donut-“

     “Don’t. Get out, I don’t want to look at you,” Donut spits angrily. He shoves Doc toward the door, once, then twice more when he doesn’t move far enough. He gives him one more hard push out the door. “Don’t you  _dare_ do that to me again,” he says shakily, before slamming the door in Doc’s face and locking it.

     He slides down the wall and puts his head in between his knees, shaking and sobbing as quietly as possible so as not to attract any attention. Holy shit, holy  _shit_. He shakes and cries until the adrenaline wears off, and his anger is replaced by a painful despair. God, but Doc needs help, and he needs it quickly before he ends up dead.

     Donut sits up, pressing his back against the cool wall and taking deep breaths. His cheeks are itchy with dried tears, and he is still trembling slightly from the adrenaline rush. He glances to the left and spots Doc’s pistol still on his floor, and scrambles toward it. He bite his lips, repressing more tears as he confirms that it had, indeed, been cocked and loaded. He takes a shuddering breath and removes the bullets, stowing them and the pistol itself in his sock drawer. He buries the weapon underneath his clothing, making a conscious effort to keep his breathing even as he does so.

     He is not going to let Doc spiral. Not so long as he still draws breath.


End file.
